Responsibility
by rogueandkurt
Summary: Spencer isn't one to back down from what is expected of him. But how much is too much? Oneshot. ReidCentric.


**42. Responsibility**

**Author: **rogueandkurt

**Rating:** K+

**Fandom:** Criminal Minds

Alright, this one is close to my heart and was spurned from a bit of a rough patch in my life this past summer. I hope it achieves the desired effect...

Also, I apologize in advance for any medical/symptom innacuracies. Any mistakes are my own.

Enjoy.

**Disclaimer:** Criminal Minds is property of CBS, a.k.a. not me.

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"Mom, I'm home." 

There was no answer. Spencer sighed as he closed the door behind him. It usually only meant one thing.

He let the backpack slide from his shoulders, laying it to rest on the floor next to his shoes. The house was a mess again - there were books everywhere, discarded dishes and papers littering every flat surface. He made his way through the living room to the back part of the house, knowing what he would find.

He'd been late tonight - studying at the library. He hadn't bothered to call; there was almost no point anymore. But his face was still sore from the run-in he'd had on his way home past the arcade, and experience told him he'd have a black eye in the morning.

He knocked once, not expecting a reply this time as he opened the door to his parents' room. Well, his mother's room, as it had been since his father had left a year and a half ago. It was dark, the shade drawn, but his mother's form was visible on the bed, surrounded by her usual pile of books and papers. She was still in her night things, leaning against the headboard of the bed in a light doze.

"Mom." Spencer's statement was loud, as he walked determinedly across the room to throw open the shade. It had an adverse effect - it was almost dark out anyway, offering little illumination to the depressing room. Diana Reid stirred all the same, awoken by her son's voice.

"Spencer?"

Her voice was dull, lazy, and monotonous; holding little of the stubborn and determined mother Spencer had always known when he was younger. She blinked in response to the minimal sunlight coming from the window, her eyes focusing on the young boy in front of it.

He crossed his arms, the gesture adding years to his adolescent appearance.

"You haven't eaten anything today, have you."

It was a statement, not a question. He already knew the answer.

She looked confused for a moment, and then turned her attention to the paper lying next to her.

"I didn't feel like eating," she commented, writing some notes on the page.

Spencer frowned.

"Have you gotten out of bed at all today?"

She didn't reply, once again absorbed in her work. He shook his head in mild resignation, leaving the room. He went to the kitchen, pushing aside dirty dishes to clear a space on the counter. Opening the fridge, he pulled out some lettuce and a tomato, reminding himself to stop at the grocery store the next day after school. He checked the dates on the bread, assuring himself that it was fresh, before assembling the sandwich. He cut it in triangles, the same way she'd always made them for him.

He didn't knock at all this time, entering the room and placing the sandwich on the night table without a word. He moved some of her books aside, ignoring her protests, to sit on the edge of her bed.

"You need to eat, Mom. Now."

It wasn't a command, not exactly, but it was as close as it would get. He picked up a section of the sandwich and held it in front of her. Diana held his eyes for a moment, a bit of her old stubbornness floating to the surface, and for a few seconds, Spencer was sure she would reprimand him for ordering her around. Instead, she took the offered food, biting into it without a word. Spencer watched to ensure she ate it all, taking the plate when she was done.

"You should really get up, Mom," Spencer reminded her as she resumed her work.

"Not now, Spencer," she said, a bit of iron in her voice. "I'm busy."

Spencer knew he wouldn't be able to convince her otherwise. At least she'd eaten something. He returned to the kitchen and set about washing the dishes.

The University had cut back his mother's classes, leaving her with only three teaching days a week. They'd probably wanted to fire her, but despite her increasingly frequent absences, she was still the best 15th Century Literature professor in Nevada. Spencer helped her prepare on the days that she taught, reminding her the day before, leaving clothes out for her, and arranging the scattered pages that contained her lectures. He even set out a bag lunch for her, knowing she was prone to forget to eat in the midst of her classes. The decreased hours seemed to agree with her, in that she tended to show up to her lectures more often than she had when Spencer's father was around, but they also left her alone in the house with nothing to do for four days out of the week. And all of that time by herself was taking its toll.

Ever since her husband had walked out, Diana had given up whatever miniscule amount of motivation she'd had left and simply resigned herself to spending her days in bed, reading and making notes. On particularly good days, she made it as far as the desk in her makeshift office and even remembered to eat and get dressed on her own. But the bad days, which in Spencer's opinion were becoming more and more prominent, she would laze the day away, sometimes lying in one position long enough to develop bed sores if Spencer couldn't convince her to move around. She simply didn't care about showering or dressing herself or combing her long blonde hair. In fact, her hair had become so ratty over the course of a particularly bad stretch of weeks that Spencer had had the unfortunate duty of cutting it off himself. The short hairstyle he'd given her was much more easily managed, to his relief.

The very worst days, and Spencer counted himself lucky that there had been few, were the ones where even her books and her work held no interest for her. She merely lay in her dark room, so motionless that Spencer had, on occasion, feared she was dead. She wasn't - she was just so void of motivation and desire that the world had nothing to offer her. She had no interest in anything - no reason for living or for dying. Those days scared Spencer.

Spencer finished drying the last plate, placing it in the cupboard with the others. He went about the house, picking up books and papers off the floor and tables, arranging them as neatly as he could. When the house had finally regained some semblance of order, he started on his homework. It didn't take him too long to finish - he was at the top of his class in almost every subject, despite being a few years younger than the rest of his classmates. He glanced at the clock hanging next to the kitchen door. Still two hours before he _had _to get to bed; there was plenty of time to set about paying that month's bills.

He gathered all of the necessary receipts and letters from the utility companies and began doing the calculations. This had once been his father's job - as a mathematics professor, the numbers had come relatively easy to Spencer's dad - but the duty had since fallen to him. His mother, while brilliant in matters of history and literature, had no mind for numbers and calculations. Every month, Spencer would add up the expenses, write out the appropriate cheques, and give them to his mother to sign. Fortunately, her salary still managed to cover the basic expenses they needed.

Spencer looked over the long column of numbers he'd just written and, with a small jolt, realized that he'd somehow made a mistake. Rubbing the numbers furiously with an eraser, he blinked away the hot tears that had suddenly filled his eyes, frustrated with it all. It wasn't fair. He'd taken on more responsibility at age eleven than many adults had in a lifetime. His father had abandoned him and, in a way, his mother had too. At least his dad's way was easier - Spencer didn't have to worry about looking after him. He didn't have to feed him, or help him change his clothes, or force him to get out of bed and move around. He had become a caregiver to his mother at a time when he should have been the one being looked after, at a time when his life was already bizarre enough and all he wanted was for someone to hold him and tell him it would all be okay.

A tear fell onto his page of scribbled numbers, obscuring them completely, and for a split second, Spencer wished his mother really _was _dead so that he wouldn't have to deal with it anymore. He instantly felt sick for the thought and swore to whoever was listening that he hadn't meant it. He looked away from the bills to catch a glimpse of himself in the shiny, reflective surface of the table and was almost surprised that his reflection showed the same, skinny eleven-year-old it always had. Part of him had expected to see a monster, a horribly evil creature snarling back at him. How could he have thought that? What kind of child ever wished their mother was dead?

He pushed away from the table, abandoning the piles of bills to walk quietly towards his mom's bedroom, still sick with guilt. It felt like the entire world had heard his thoughts at that moment. He opened the door slowly, breathing a sigh of relief as her sleeping figure became noticable on the bed, illuminated by the moonlight shining throught the un-shaded window. She snored lightly, and the disgust he felt towards himself was lessened some by the fact that she was blissfully unaware of what her only son had been wishing only moments ago. He waded through the darkness, climbing onto the bed and seating himself next to her, careful not to crumple her paperwork or treasured books. She breathed in and out, peaceful under Spencer's careful watch.

The tears were drying on his cheeks as he tried with all his might to forget that split second of weakness. He loved his mother - he knew he did. How could he ever be so ungrateful?

Spencer felt his eyelids drooping, but forced himself to keep them open, continuing to watch his mom. He didn't want to sleep, didn't want to take his eyes off of her for so much as an instant. It was his job to look after her. He'd watch over her that night, and in the morning the cycle would start all over again. He tried desperately not to yawn as he slid down the headboard to lay on his back, his bespectacled eyes never leaving her face. She took another breath and he let go the one he'd been holding.

_I'll always look after you,_ he silently promised the darkness. _Always._

_Fin._

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Sorry if it's a bit on the depressing side... As I said, it was written during a tough time I had. 

I'll have another fic up within a week.

Thank you for reading and please take a moment of your time to review - concrit IS appreciated!

Keep Smiling! ;)

rogueandkurt


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